


The Upsides of Stupid Hair

by GoodyearTheShippyCat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bullying, Crack, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Ethos Gets a New Haircut, Every Ridiculous Hair Accessory That Was Trendy During Our Youths, Fluff and Crack, Hair, Hair Dyeing, Haircuts, Kissing, M/M, Mean Girl Phobos, Nonsense, Phobos is Bad at Polyamory, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Coital, Post-Coital Cuddling, Touch-Starved, Vicks Can Obtain Anything, jokes gone too far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat
Summary: After Ethos leaves the Navigators lab, upset by an insult from Phobos, he’s surprised at who follows him to make sure he’s okay.EDIT: A wild second chapter appeared! And it just goes unashamedly for the crack. This went from sweet to utterly ridiculous (and maybe still a little sweet). Ethos and Porthos decide to take Phobos literally, which is always a bad idea.





	1. Chapter 1

“Shut up, Abel!”

Phobos’ high-pitched voice rang out over the background buzz of quiet conversation and fingers flying over keys. Most of the navigators in the lab swiveled their heads, interest always piqued by the possibility of new gossip. Ethos resolutely remained focused on his screen, distracted enough without allowing himself to be dragged into the drama just a few workstations over.

“Nobody asked for your help, so why don’t you piss off?” continued the lithe navigator, turning his nose up at Abel, who stood beside his station with an angry line furrowed between dark brows. “Go join the Stupid Hair Club instead of bothering me! I’m pretty sure Ethos is the president of it. Go bug him instead!”

Ethos’ shoulders stiffened, tensing at the insult, but he didn’t dignify it with a response. He continued typing, though now all his fingers would put out was gibberish. His ability to focus on the coding was shot completely.

“Hey! That’s not fair—” began Abel, before Phobos rolled right over his objection.

“Oh, poor Abel! It must be so hard to not be the best at _something_! Even if you can’t be president, I’m sure you could manage to at least make _secretary_. I believe in you.”

When the conversation in the room had shifted away from him again, Ethos deleted the mess he’d typed without really paying attention. Then he stood up, grabbed his datapad, and tried to walk as if he was going somewhere with a purpose while retreating from the lab.

Usually he was better at shrugging off a ridiculous jab from Phobos, or the occasional mean whispers from the worst of the gossips. But after being kept awake by Praxis’ nightmares—and a few long nights working overtime on important analyses earlier in the week—his patience was gone, and with it, his emotional defenses.

Ethos felt more vulnerable than he had since first transferring to the Sleipnir, trying to get used to the hazing from the experienced members of the crew. How was it that Phobos could manage to hurt him more than an entire complement of battle-weary warship soldiers with just a few words?

Taking a deep, shaky breath and willing himself not to cry while he was still in public, Ethos ducked into the nearest conference room. He left the lights off—so as not to alert anyone to his presence there—letting his eyes adjust to the small amount of illumination coming through the window from the hall. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs furthest from the door and put his head in his hands, leaning on the table top. With another heaving breath, he felt the first tears spill from the corners of his eyes, trailing down either side of his nose. Ethos balled his hands into fists, trying to at least keep quiet as he let himself finally succumb to the emotional turmoil that seemed to have taken over.

 _How does Abel deal with this every day?_ Ethos wondered as his quiet sobs abated a few minutes later. Phobos never missed an opportunity to harass the navigator of the _Reliant_ , always saving his cruelest jokes for Abel.

Yet his friend was seemingly never phased by it; annoyed perhaps, but the insults didn’t seem to hit home. Abel let all of the nasty remarks roll off his back as if they were nothing, at most jibing back at Phobos briefly, but never sinking to his level. For a moment, Ethos thought sullenly that it was probably easier to ignore the catty comments if you were as beautiful as Abel was. Then he felt bad for thinking that, realizing Abel was probably hurt by them, too, even if he knew they weren’t true.

 _Abel’s just so strong! He can keep from showing how hurt he is_ , thought Ethos, certain this must be the case, and vowing to compliment Abel on his hair sometime. To make sure his friend knew that Phobos was only full of hot air.

 _Why does he have to be so mean about it, though?_ he wondered ruefully, sniffling a little. In truth, Ethos didn’t mind Phobos most of the time. Sure, he complained a lot, but he really wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t actively insulting people. Ethos knew that he must be scared—just like the rest of them—entering Colteron space, and chalked up the sudden increase in the frequency with which Phobos lashed out without much provocation to that.

 _It’s too bad that we can’t just be friends_. Ethos had tried talking to Phobos in the mess hall, or during free hours, but he always seemed preoccupied with something or someone else. After a few attempts, he’d all but given up, sick of being ignored or dismissed. Even Porthos was more likely to chat with him than Phobos was, provided they weren’t together.

 _Maybe if I were tall and good-looking, he’d pay attention to me, too_. Ethos let himself wallow in self-pity for longer than he usually would, being upset and exhausted as he was.

He wondered if the secret to making wavier hair look good was to cut it into a mohawk; still thinking of Porthos and the way Phobos fawned over him. He tried to picture himself with a similar haircut, then immediately tried to forget the horrible image. He might need to bleach his brain, now... Clearly the only way to pull that look off was to have a square jawline and broad shoulders.

Either that or Porthos was just so tall and strong and intimidating that nobody wanted to tell him that his haircut made him look a little bit like a pineapple.

A wet-sounding giggle escaped Ethos’ lips unbidden, and threatened to turn into another sob. He clamped his mouth shut again, and just in time, too. The door to the hall slid open, letting more light spill into the dark room—and silhouetting that very same pineapple-esque outline of a certain Navigator’s head.

“Ethos?” asked the dark shape in the doorway.

“O– oh! P–Porthos! Um, I w–was just uh... trying to get some w–work done. Um, somewhere m–more quiet,” said Ethos, though he knew the fib was completely unconvincing. His datapad wasn’t even on; sitting blank on the table in front of him, screen dark as the lights in the room. “I can, uh, l–leave if you and Phobos were going to use, um, this room.”

“No, don’t worry,” said Porthos quietly as he stepped inside, none of the usual sneer evident in his voice, “It’s just me.”

The door closed behind the larger man, and he switched on the lines of overhead lights closest to the door. They gave the room a little more illumination than came in through the small window, but weren’t blinding in the back where Ethos sat.

Nevertheless, they’d make it hard to hide the fact that he’d been crying. Ethos scrubbed at his eyes, hoping to at least face the other Navigator with a bit of dignity. He had just started to speak when he was startled by the feeling of Porthos’ big, warm hand on his shoulder, silencing him again. Ethos shuddered into the touch, unable to remember the last time he’d had even that amount of human contact. Apart from Keeler’s barely-there fingers, correcting his form in yoga sometimes... It was probably the hug his mother gave him when he’d first shipped off to the space station, many months ago.

“Hey,” Porthos’ deep voice tore Ethos from his thoughts, “Mind if I sit with you?”

Ethos nodded. Then, overthinking it, shook his head. Then blurted out, quite flustered: “Go ahead!”

Porthos pulled out the adjacent chair with his free hand, the one on Ethos’ shoulder giving a comforting squeeze before withdrawing as he sat. Unsure what to say now, Ethos just stared at his data pad on the table, hands gripping the sides of his own chair to keep from fidgeting.

Porthos let out a breath, audible in the quiet room, with only the ever-present hum of the ship for accompaniment. It sounded almost like a sigh. “I’m sorry about Phobos,” he started, followed by a long pause.

Ethos snuck a peak at him from the corner of his eye, vision still a little blurry. The larger navigator looked like he was thinking hard about how best to continue, brow scrunched up and lips turned slightly downward.

“O– oh, you don’t need to apologize!” Ethos exclaimed, a little uncomfortable. Porthos wasn’t so bad. Sure, he laughed at Phobos’ cruel jokes or added a quip of his own, and he gossiped and sneered sometimes, too, but he hadn’t been awful to Ethos in particular... the apology was unexpected and confusing.

“Yeah, I do,” said Porthos bluntly, his turn to fidget as he continued to search for whatever words he wanted to convey. “I’m sorry if he’s been particularly... difficult... recently. He’s been having a hard time adjusting to the Sleipnir... Just, don’t take what he says personally.”

“I– I try not to. I know he must be stressed... Um, I think we’re all a bit stressed and overworked out here,” Ethos said, trying to keep his voice even, “I just don’t see why he has to b–be so m–mean about, uh, things sometimes. It doesn’t h–help anyone.” He shut his eyes tight, willing his breathing to slow again, not wanting to break down in front of his colleague.

Porthos sighed in earnest. “It’s just how he deals with things. It doesn’t make any of what he says true.”

Ethos felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder again, but didn’t startle as much this time; only tensing slightly before relaxing into it. He opened his eyes and turned his head a little to look at Porthos, who was staring right back at him.

“You know that… right?” Porthos asked, something like concern apparent in his tone and expression. The hand he’d placed on Ethos’ shoulder rubbed slowly back and forth.

After an erratic inhalation, Ethos responded, “Y–yeah. Uh, I mean, I know next to him I’m not m–much to look at, but I know he’s n–not serious about—”  Porthos’ hand lifted off his back and the index finger pressed against his lips softly, effectively shushing him.

The taller man moved his hand to cradle Ethos’ cheek, brushing away a stray tear as he did so. Ethos felt his face flush, embarrassed and nervous. He was sure he looked a sight; eyes probably puffy from crying, bloodshot from too little sleep, and now his tear-streaked cheeks going bright red. He wanted to look away but the warm, open expression on Porthos’ face kept him from breaking eye contact. He was entranced by the other man’s pale, blue-grey irises, looking back at him like he was worth looking at.

So, when Porthos leaned in closer, slowly closing the distance between them, Ethos saw it coming and turned his head to the side. Porthos’ lips just barely brushed against his cheek before the larger navigator leaned back, looking a little surprised, and rather disappointed.

“Sorry,” he said, running one hand back through his disheveled mohawk, “I thought you were interested.... I should have asked.”

“Um, it’s, uh, it’s not you,” mumbled Ethos, face feeling even hotter, “I mean, uh, it’s just... what about Phobos?”

“Ha! Don’t worry about that. It’s not like I’m the only guy he’s seeing. We aren’t exclusive or anything.”

“O– oh! Okay,” Ethos fidgeted in his seat, still unsure about the situation. Porthos continued watching him intently, but he didn’t know what he could do to make things less awkward than he’d already managed to make them.

“Ethos, would you like me to kiss you?” Porthos asked, no trace of teasing in his voice.

Ethos looked up at him, into that calm face, and nodded. Maybe too energetically. He stopped the wild bobbing of his head and gave the other navigator a shy smile.

This time, when Porthos leaned in, Ethos didn’t turn away. Instead, he let his eyes flutter shut and opened his lips slightly, thrilling when they made contact with the larger man’s mouth. Porthos kissed him, slow and gentle, bringing one big hand up to rest on his shoulder. The other threaded into the curls at the back of his head, guiding it to tilt slightly, deepening the kiss. Ethos felt just the tip of Porthos’ tongue as it traced the inside of his bottom lip, and let out a soft noise. When they finally pulled apart, he was slightly breathless, and still getting tingles from where Porthos’ fingers continued to stroke through his tousled locks.

“You, uh, like stupid hair?” Ethos asked, a bit of humour coming back to his voice.

“I guess so,” said Porthos, who smiled wryly then pointed to his own head, “And I think Phobos might just like stupid hair, too.”

They giggled like schoolgirls. Ethos was the first to recover, now wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.

“Does that mean you want to join my club?”

Ethos could feel strong arms tighten around him, their faces close enough that Porthos’ breath puffed warm across his lips.

“Mmmm, I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the navigators doing yoga comes from one hilarious fic which I highly recommend reading if you’re in the mood for crack ([Yoghurts by Nothing_but_the_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/955583)) and one poignant fic, if you're in the mood for feels ([Live For Today by The_Word_Arranger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010524)). 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or find me on [tumblr](https://goodyeartheshippycat.tumblr.com/) for a chat about your favourite underappreciated characters/rare pairs!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this fic just went from sweet to completely and utterly cracky. And I had way too much fun coming up with ridiculous hairstyle ideas for them. Also bumped the rating up to ‘T’ now that there’s a post-coital scene. 
> 
> I have to dedicate this chapter to [on_the_wing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing) for the continual inspiration and helpful suggestions, without which this would never have been written.

Ethos pushed sweat-damp curls out of his eyes, staring out at the room, vision slightly unfocused. He felt the rise and fall of Porthos’ chest beneath his head, breath slowing as they both lay quietly recovering from what had probably been the best afternoon Ethos had had since boarding the _Sleipnir_.

It was too warm on the narrow bunk, both of them sticky and radiating heat from their recent exertions. Ethos octopussed onto Porthos’ side anyway, getting as much of himself up against the larger man as possible. His presence was comforting, grounding while Ethos still felt tingly all over; a bit overwhelmed in the best way.

“Wow.”

“Um, yeah… wow.”

“You aren’t afraid to lose yourself to the moment, huh? It’s awesome.”

“Oh! Oh, I... I guess not,” said Ethos quietly, turning his face into Porthos’ chest even more, trying not to feel too embarrassed. Strong fingers scritched at the nape of his neck, travelling up to tangle in his hair.

“Don’t worry, I liked it! It’s just so different from Pho–” Ethos felt as the other man’s breath caught, before being let out in a defeated rush “...never mind.”

“Oh! It’s okay,” said Ethos, trying to cut off the impending awkwardness at the pass, “He’s, uh, important to you. I understand.” He lay still, savouring every second curled around Porthos as if it were the last he might spend in this blissful reverie.

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t important, too,” the words rumbled low from the larger man’s chest as he wrapped his arms around Ethos. They lay like that for a while longer, until Porthos broached the comfortable silence once more.

“Speaking of Phobos… we should start an actual Stupid Hair Club,” a chuckle vibrated through his sternum and made Ethos smile, “Just to see how he reacts.”

“Ha! What, like, with pins or jackets or something?”

“Ugh, that sounds like a lot of work,” Porthos rubbed at his eyes and put a hand over his mouth as he yawned, “I was just thinking something along the lines of doing our hair up in some outrageous styles. I bet you a bottle of contraband Phobos can’t let it stand for longer than five minutes without marching us off to fix it for us.”

“Oh my… I don’t know if that’s a smart bet to take,” replied Ethos, humour obvious in his voice even as he tried to keep it deadpan, “But if we do it, we need to get Abel to join us. It won’t work without him.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Porthos, rolling out of bed and stretching so that the muscles of his shoulders and back rippled—a sight that Ethos found _extremely_ distracting. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up and go find him!”

 

“I don’t know guys... won’t it just annoy Phobos?”

Porthos shrugged, “Come on Abel, what do you do that doesn’t end up annoying Phobos? At least have it be for a good reason this time.”

“Besides, umm, it’ll be fun!” Ethos chimed in, “Who knows? Phobos might even decide to join us.”

Abel and Porthos both laughed out loud at that.

“Okay, okay, but what am I supposed to do with my hair?” relented Abel.

“I think we can figure something out…”

“Tch!” Cain interjected from where he’d been leaning against the wall, puffing smoke into one of the air vents. “If you little bitches fuck up Abel’s hair, I’m gonna fuck _you_ up, got it?”

“Oh, um, did you want to join us, Cain?” asked Ethos, “I bet we could do great things with your hair!”

“Pfft! As if I’d let you touch my fucking hair. Not a fucking chance. You can do your girly sleepover bullshit all you want, but I’m getting the hell out of here.” With that, he ground out his cigarette butt in an overflowing ash tray and left the room, leaving the navigators to their accumulated hair products and accessories.

 

Ethos tried to hold his head high and stride confidently into the lab the next morning. It was difficult, feeling as ridiculous as he did with his hair pulled into dozens of little pigtails like a toddler. The round, bauble-ended elastics he’d used felt strange against his scalp, and he knew he’d be getting stares and laughs at his expense all day.

Relief flooded through him upon seeing Porthos and Abel standing around the same table, going over some figures. He rushed over to join them, followed by a flurry of hushed chatter and a few poorly-disguised giggles. Porthos actually didn’t look too awful, mohawk pulled entirely over to one side and tightly finger waved to within an inch of its life.

_It’s almost an edgy fashion statement?_ Ethos thought, wondering if Phobos had laid eyes on it yet.

“Oh, Ethos, you look absolutely adorable!” Abel smiled at him, but he had trouble smiling back without laughing.

The other navigator had certainly taken things in a more extreme direction than they’d worked on the previous night. Some of the French braids they’d put in his hair were intact, but he must have pulled some of them out at the front in order to get enough hair to wind up into symmetrical victory rolls at the outer corners of his hairline. His neon yellow streaks highlighted the high, rounded shape of his hair. He almost looked like a lady from one of those ancient wartime propaganda posters.

“I guess we’ll need to get some ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’ posters printed out, huh?” joked Ethos, and Abel laughed high and bright, “When is the photoshoot planned? Have you got your war bonds and stamps?”

“Someone will have to go find me some red lipstick!” Abel added in between fits of giggles.

“I don’t think that will be too difficult,” contributed Porthos with a knowing smirk.

It wasn’t long before Keeler made his way into the lab, juggling multiple datapads in his arms. Phobos was sidled up alongside him—talking a mile a minute about something or other—the Lead Navigator only partly paying attention to the conversation as the barrage of greetings and questions from half the lab began.

Ethos met Phobos’ eyes, and got to see every twitch of his beautiful face as confusion, rage, disgust, and countless other expressions warred on it. Keeler stopped to look in their direction when Phobos froze on the spot, a strangled noise coming from his open mouth.

“Oh! What fun! Whose idea was this?” asked the long-haired navigator as he joined their little group around the table.

“Um, I guess it was, uh, Porthos who convinced—”

“Excuse me! It was MY idea, thank you very much!” Phobos exclaimed as he barged in, cutting Ethos off.

“Oh, but Phobos, why didn’t you do your hair, then?” asked Keeler, frowning, with his head tilted appraisingly.

Phobos just spluttered silently as Keeler turned back to the others.

“This really is a delightful change of pace, isn’t it? Ethos, Porthos, Abel, I’m impressed with your initiative. We need more little morale boosters like this,” he said, beaming at them before turning to the rest of the room and raising his voice slightly, “Now, get stuff wrapped up and head down to the joint briefing hall. I expect everyone in here to be on time!”

 

After the briefing, Ethos watched as Phobos left his place beside Deimos and strode over to where he, Porthos, and Abel had congregated at the side of one aisle.

“Hey! Just what do you losers think you’re up to?” he sniped, coming to a halt in front of them and crossing his arms, “I can’t believe Keeler fell for your brownnosing so easily! Boosting morale my ass!” He let out a laugh devoid of humour. It sounded to Ethos like fine crystal about to shatter.

“Oh leave off it, Phobos!” said Abel, “We’re just having a bit of harmless fun.”

“Whatever! I expect this kind of weirdness from you and Ethos,” he started, rounding on the third member of their party as he spoke, “But Porthos… Oh, my sweet, stupid Porthos. How ever did they convince you to partake in this embarrassment?”

Porthos planted his hands on his hips, looking down his nose at Phobos with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Well, I figured I’d join the club, seeing as I already had the qualifications.” He tossed his head to emphasize his point, but it didn’t have the intended effect, Ethos thought, with his hair gelled into place.

“Hmph!” Phobos turned sharply back around, “Well, I suppose I should _congratulate_ you on achieving your dreams and becoming club secretary, then, Abel.” 

“Vice President, actually.”

“ _I’m_ the secretary,” Porthos added in a mock-seductive tone.

“Ugggghhhh!” whined Phobos, “Come on Porthos, we’re getting out of here and getting that hot mess washed out of your hair!” He grabbed the larger man’s wrist and began dragging him off.

“Come to my room after dinner,” Porthos whispered to Ethos, loudly enough to earn another displeased noise from Phobos, who was still tugging in vain, attempting to get his substantial mass moving. “And bring that bottle of contraband you owe me!” he added with a wink before allowing himself to be led off.

“That was more than five minutes!” Ethos called out, even as he blushed bright red. He couldn’t meet Abel’s eyes afterward, and they stood there for a moment in awkward silence. That is, until his extremely helpful fighter decided to show up and make things even more awkward, thus saving Ethos from his mortification.

“Ethos, I’ve been looking for you! Our time in the VR sims is starting soon…” Praxis trailed off as his jaw dropped, almost in slow motion, “Abel, wow. I didn’t realize you were doing the... hair club thing, too… I really, uh, like the new look. It’s… interesting?”

Ethos wasn’t sure if he wanted to smack his own forehead or Praxis’ more.

 

That night, Ethos was meandering back to his room relaxed, happy, and still buzzing a little from all the pleasure. His hair was an absolute mess; half the pigtails had come out of their elastics when he and Porthos had gotten particularly enthusiastic…

It was late, and he expected to have to sneak into his room quietly, so as not to wake his fighter. He listened at the door and didn’t hear anything, then keyed in his code. He was surprised to see light spill out into the corridor as the entryway slid open. Praxis was waiting up, staring at the door intently while pretending to read. The fact that his tablet’s screen had gone into standby mode was evidence enough of his lack of commitment to the ruse.

“Would it be okay if I joined your club?” asked the older man, sounding almost timid, as if he were afraid that Ethos would say no.

“Oh! You really want to, Praxis?”

“Uh, sure. Looks like fun?”

“Do you mind?” Ethos asked, already starting to run his fingers through the fighter’s hair, assessing it. Praxis flinched slightly and Ethos could feel the tiny shudder run through his flight partner’s body. The response was sadly familiar, and it made Ethos’ heart go out to the fighter. He slowed his motions for a moment, then took his hands away completely, having gathered all the information he needed.

“Hmmm, it might be tough. Your hair is sort of boring.”

Praxis gave him a nasty look, his one visible eye dark and stormy beneath lowered brows.

“Sorry! Umm, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s very handsome… it just, hmm, doesn’t lend itself well to many crazy styles... Oh! One second!” He ran to the head and returned with an unmarked bottle. “If you can keep a secret.... I use this to make my own hair paler. I’m actually a really fair strawberry blonde naturally... but I have an idea for yours!”

 

The following day, Keeler came into the lab with voluminous, artfully messy hair to rival the best of the historical musicians who performed in something called ‘hair metal’ bands. It was impressive, and somewhat terrifying.

Ethos felt outclassed, with only half his head of hair teased out for perm-like lift. The other half had been straightened so it lay limp against his head. Porthos gave him a funny smile from two workstations over and tipped his head forward to show off the collection of tiny, butterfly-shaped clips holding his hair into a zig-zagging part. Abel waved as he came over from behind a row of displays. His look that morning involved kiss curls framing his face and the rest of his hair gelled back severely; like some androgynous silent film star on a bad hair day.

 

Ethos was walking to lunch with Praxis, playing a game of “spot the stupid hairstyle” as they went. A few navigators had apparently decided to jump on the bandwagon after Keeler’s comments the previous day, so the occasional pale head wearing ridiculous accessories was visible amongst the hustle bustle of the ship. Turning a corner, they almost ran bodily into Cain and Deimos.

“AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!” Cain hugged his stomach, nearly bent double while pointing and laughing at Praxis. By the time he recovered enough to stand up straight again, there were tears of amusement in the corners of his eyes. “Nice frosted tips, Cyclops! Do you know how fucking stupid you look right now?”

“No stupider than you do with those scrunchies on either side of your face and a tiara, of all things,” retorted Praxis, back stiff and fists at his sides.

“Heh, yeah, can you believe Abel had this just lying around?” said Cain, fiddling with the sparkly crown balanced over his messy bangs.

“Somehow I find that easier to believe than the fact that you would willingly wear it.”

“Tch! After Keeler busted into PT yesterday to put that fucking rhinestone fan comb into Encke’s hair? Figured I’d better show up dressed appropriately,” Cain flipped his head back and the locks of dark hair framing his face bounced, making the bright neon hair ties they were pulled through even more obvious, “But at least I can take these off and my hair still looks fucking fantastic. You’ve ruined what little dignity your boring old man style had.”

Ethos puffed up his chest and stepped between the two fighters. “Well I think the spiky hair makes Praxis look badass! Like a warrior from a videogame!” Looking back at his flight partner, he questioned whether it had been the right move. Praxis had dropped his face into one hand in apparent embarrassment.

“I thought it couldn’t get any worse than the fucking eyepatch, but you’ve proved me wrong,” Cain laughed derisively, a cruel edge to his voice, “Come on, Deimos, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Deimos followed Cain but looked back at Praxis as he walked, tilting his head to one side. The corner of his mouth lifted into an almost-smile as he rounded the corner.

 

Stupid Hair Club had officially taken off, spreading like wildfire through the ship’s ranks. The craze may have begun with the navigators, but as the days wore on, more and more fighters could be spotted sporting new, ridiculous hair cuts and tacky accessories. Ethos had never had so many people enthusiastically introduce themselves to him in one week since attending science camp as a kid.

The people had spoken, and they demanded that him, Abel, and Porthos judge their tonsorial creations. Just four days in and competition had hit a fever pitch, the halls of the _Sleipnir_ becoming impromptu catwalks on which the most creative stylists displayed their designs proudly. Some of the cattier ones even went so far as to try and sabotage each other, by stealing necessary hair product or snatching out load-bearing pins, leading to some memorable toppling of the highest coiffured creations. The daily winners were even being listed on the board next to team rankings.

Vicks was making a killing. It wasn’t unusual to see him wandering the mess deck on his breaks, a large, saucer-shaped fascinator perched at a jaunty angle over his reddish brown mop of hair. The band and brim were adorned with all manner of fake flowers, colourful clips, and bejewelled bobby pins. Bandanas in every possible hue exploded from the open pockets of his jumpsuit, and he carried around long, flexible tubes that looked like they might have been spare parts from the Starfighter repair supplies... with a rainbow of ribbons and scrunchies lined up along them. A crowd of soldiers in both dark and light uniforms often formed around him, and a few fights even broke out over the more outrageous accessories he turned up. Nobody knew where he was getting the stuff, but nobody really wanted to ask.

He’d given Ethos a wink and a charming smile more than once, now. Ethos was so flustered that one time he’d almost blurted out a request for Vicks to become the club’s event organizer. Forgetting, of course, that the club didn’t actually exist in any real sense and didn’t have any events which required a dedicated organizer. Instead he just hid behind his hands, for all the good it would do. The way he’d pulled his hair into a poodle-like set of poofs with pastel bows made him quite visible even in the ever-expanding sea of wacky hairdos on board.

 

Ethos hated to admit that it was kind of funny to watch Phobos become more and more apoplectic as the week wore on. His eyes would boggle at each new, terrible hairstyle that entered the lab or mess hall, his mouth pursing up tight like he’d eaten a sour candy. Ethos could almost see him mentally crossing off names on a list of “Navigators Cool Enough to Be Seen With”.

Though Phobos saved his most vocal disapproval for those he knew personally. Or, at least _navigators_ he knew personally. Athos’ attempt at dreadlocks only got a minor scoff of disappointment, as if it were a level of absurdity expected from him. Some of their crewmates didn’t get off quite so easily.

“Really Luna? A rat tail AND a pompadour? Did you _have_ to double down on the stupid?” he said one morning, voice dripping with bile, as the other navigator came in uncharacteristically late.

“Well yeah, if I want to win today, of course!” replied Luna, all smiles as usual, “I got up early and it still took me all morning to get it like this!”

Luna ended up getting an honourable mention. The winner that day had somehow managed to get his hair looking like what would happen if you threw a small white lapdog into a nuclear reactor with a can of hairspray and a box of crayons… Ethos couldn’t even describe it properly. And he felt terrible that he couldn’t recall the fellow’s task name…

_Did it start with a ‘B’? B– Ba…_ He tried to think, but it was gone. He’d met so many new people since this all started, a few names were bound to slip through the cracks of his normally excellent memory. He made a note to reintroduce himself next time he saw the other navigator. He’d seen him around the ship enough in the past, usually at unexpected, almost random times, hanging around at the back of a crowded room, or just another face in the halls, datapad or laptop in hand.

 

“Why are you doing this, Ethos?” The question was clear even over the noise of Phobos’ lunch tray clattering down next to his. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Umm, I’m not s-sure I understand, uh, what you’re s-saying, Phobos…”

“Come on, cut the innocent crap, would you? We both know you’re the mastermind behind this trainwreck of a trend.”

“Oh! I mean, it was, um, just s-supposed to be a little joke. Between Porthos and I,” replied Ethos, wringing his hands together in his lap. He looked out at the other navigator from beneath poofy, pin-up bangs topped by a silky headband. It was adorned with strands of fake pearls which hung down over the rest of his hair, nestling amongst the curls.  

“Ugh! Don’t even get me started on Porthos!” huffed Phobos, “If you think this little stunt is going to make him leave me for you—”

Phobos’ speech cut off, and Ethos worried he was so upset that words had failed him for once in his life. He tried to reassure the other man:

“Oh! Oh no, Phobos, you can’t p-possibly think that! Porthos cares about you s-so much! He’s not going to leave—”

“DEIMOS!” Their trays rattled again as Phobos slammed his hands down on the tabletop and stood up.

Ethos turned to see the actual cause of the other navigator’s sudden speechlessness. Deimos and Praxis were walking over—presumably to join them—trays in hand. Praxis was rocking a fauxhawk that had a small fascinator riding on the side of it, with a big spray of veil netting falling over the side of his face with the eyepatch. And Deimos—

“What do you think you’re doing, Deimos?!” asked his flight partner, fury bubbling over and spilling into each word he spat out.

The compact fighter looked down at his tray and gave a small, half-hearted shrug. It made the ringlets his hair had been curled into bounce slightly.

“How could you do this to me, you insufferable waste of cockpit space! You’re supposed to be my teammate!”

Deimos shrank from Phobos’ radiating anger, stepping just behind Praxis’ side. The larger man held a protective hand out in front of him, placing his towering form between the members of Tiberius team. Deimos was practically hiding behind the giant, floppy pink bow which fell over the side of his face the way his dark bangs normally did.

“Out of the way, you meathead!”

“Not until you agree to calm down. Just let Deimos have some fun, would you?”

“Phobos, it’s okay,” rasped out the smaller fighter, peeking out from around Praxis’ back.

"NOPE! No way! I am NOT going to be seen in the same ship as you with your hair like that!" yelled Phobos as he pushed his way past a surprised Praxis and grabbed Deimos’ wrist, dragging him away. “Come on! We’re going to fix this crime against decency _right now._ ”

Praxis sighed, picking up Phobos’ tray from the table and juggling the awkward plastic rectangles around in his arms, “I’ll see you later, Ethos,” he said, sounding resigned as he followed the other two out of the mess hall.

Ethos nearly tripped over the bench getting up to chase after them, but was stopped by the sight of a friendly face smiling out from beneath rainbow-coloured liberty spikes.

“Hey, don’t worry about them,” said Porthos in his deep, soothing voice, “Phobos is probably just going to spend an hour or two bitching while he does Deimos’ hair. Honestly it won’t be that different from any other time they’re together.”

“I– I just feel bad that I caused the fight.”

Porthos tugged him back down to sit on the bench again.

“You didn’t cause anything. If it wasn’t the hair, it would be something else,” said Porthos matter-of-factly, “I don’t think those two know how to interact without some kind of conflict between them.”

“Still…” Ethos leaned into Porthos’ side as the larger navigator threw a heavy, comforting arm over his shoulders.

“This might even be the kind of enforced bonding time they could use,” said Porthos, rubbing circles into Ethos’ shoulder, “If Praxis didn’t look so determined to chaperone, I’d tell him to leave them to their own devices.”

Something like a cross between a laugh and a sigh escaped Ethos’ throat.

“I don’t know if I want to do this any more, Porthos,” he said quietly, letting his cheek rest on one strong shoulder, arms twining around a solid mid-section, “I don’t want Phobos to hate me.”

“He won’t hate you,” said Porthos, calm and reassuring, dropping a kiss on his forehead, “and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“But it’s too out of control. There’s no way we can stop it now,” said Ethos, despairing.

“I think you’re forgetting that you’re a trendsetter, now,” Porthos nuzzled the side of his face, “If you go back to normal, things will start dying down. It might take a few days, but it’ll work.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m positive. Though I think I’ll have to shave this off if I want to go back to any semblance of ‘normal’,” he said, pointing to the multicoloured statement on his scalp.

“Okay,” said Ethos, hugging him tight. They sat like that for a moment in contented silence.

“Although… if you wanted to ease your way out of it, you could always go for something that still qualifies for the club without being too out there,” Porthos said slowly, as if he were turning a thought over in his mind. Ethos looked up to meet a scrutinizing gaze and felt his stomach flip. “I have an idea.”

 

When Commander Bering entered Central Command at the end of the week to confer with Cook, every pair of eyes in the room was on him. Sparkly barrettes adorned not only his hair, but his beard as well. When the Commanders walked past Ethos’ workstation, conversing rapidly about the latest reports, Bering winked down at him.

But what really caused his jaw to drop was the sight of the back of Commander Cook’s head. It was buzzed in a high, tight fade nearly to the crown, and into it had been shaved a design which mimicked his trademark glasses. It was so realistic that only the lack of light glinting off the ‘lenses’ confirmed that Cook did not actually have eyes on the back of his head.

_The ship’s barber must have had a field day with that request!_ he thought, stifling a giggle.

From the next workstation over, a pained sound grew in volume. Ethos turned to see Phobos push back from the screen, standing up and shaking slightly. He was practically shrieking, hands pulling at his normally perfect locks of hair as he fled the room.

Ethos frowned; he really hadn’t meant for this to upset Phobos quite so much. He’d hoped that things would’ve returned to normal by now, but once you got a runaway train going, you sometimes just had to wait for its momentum to peter out. He made to get up and follow the other navigator when a familiar hand landed on his shoulder, pressing him back down into his chair. Porthos looked down at him, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s okay,” said the other man, leaning down to kiss Ethos’ newly shorn temple.

The tickly sensation where Porthos’ lips met the ultra short hairs growing back in made Ethos squirm a little. He was still getting used to the feeling of the sides of his hair being missing.

“This looks great, by the way,” Porthos continued, ruffling his fingers through the longer fringe of messy curls that sprung from the center of Ethos’ hairline and ran all the way down to a neatly tapered point in the back. “You should keep it like this. Though you might have to step down from your position as club President.”

Ethos felt his cheeks flush, pleased that the haircut Porthos had been pushing him to try had turned out better than the nightmarish visions of it he’d entertained previously. If the taller navigator hadn’t buzzed his own mohawk off, Ethos probably wouldn’t have gone for it. Matching like that would have been too weird.

_Though really_ , he thought, watching the back of Porthos’ head retreat from view, _No weirder than anything else that has happened this week._

Ethos smiled wide, another laugh bubbling up inside him. Turns out Porthos had jumped on the shaved design bandwagon along with Cook. The pineapple motifs painstakingly cut into the rainbow gradient of his wide stripe of fuzz were awfully cheeky.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [edit of Ethos looking ridiculously hot with a mohawk](http://tardigradedeathposture.tumblr.com/post/176689948496/the-upsides-of-stupid-hair-goodyeartheshippycat) is something you absolutely have to see, if you haven’t already.
> 
> Leave a comment or find me on [tumblr](https://goodyeartheshippycat.tumblr.com) if you have any thoughts about what ridiculous hair styles would best suit our favourite space gays!


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